His Adversary
by DarkFey
Summary: What memories Fenris keeps are those of bloody magisters and lyrium-laced pain, and he's learned to never trust a mage. Eavelynne Hawke, Ferelden apostate, is the one possible exception to that rule, and in his embrace is the only Circle she'll ever need.
1. Unusual Meeting: Bait and Switch, Part 1

**Hawke**

"Waste of bloody time. Who put us up to this?" Varric growled as Eavelynne Hawke kicked the empty chest shut.

The person in question had been a dwarf that had sent her a letter seeking assistance in recovering… misplaced… goods. He had seemed guileless, even a little cute within that innocence, but as she threaded her way back through the cooling corpses it became apparent something sinister was going on.

"Anso has a lot to answer for." Eavelynne said, outwardly unperturbed. Inside, she was shaking at the over-abundance of death. At least she didn't have to actually strike the killing blow. Her companions did that for her; her much favored duty was to heal and to fling the occasional nasty spell.

She lifted the skirts of her smoky gray robe to avoid a particularly nasty wash of blood and walked out the door. She came to an abrupt stop.

Mercenaries, by the look of their armor, surrounded the small, insignificant house. Even as she gazed wildly around, counting them by the tens, they tightened their formation until she could hardly see a gap between black chainmail and thick leather.

"Hold it," a woman said. "It's not the elf." Eavelynne let out a soft sigh of relief and loosened her vise-like grip on her plain ash-wood staff.

"Our orders were to kill anyone who entered the house," one of the men said. The woman gave a curt nod and they lunged at her. She cursed internally and lifted her staff up just in time to deflect a blow, but a sword went straight through it. She leapt back, narrowly missing the swing of the blade, and stared at the two pieces in her hands.

"Andraste's tits, that cost me two sovereigns!" She fell to her knees, feeling a singing blade skim her hair. _Well, well, the Maker has a sense of humor, _she thought, wincing as she stabbed the broken end of one of the pieces into a man's belly and using the other to trip a few. _I just got a haircut, and now I'm going to have to side-sweep those bangs again. _

She pulled up a violently bright shield just in time to stop being decapitating. The man on the other end grunted—the sound distorting horribly through her magic—and tried to shove the stuck sword all the way through. She stared at it wide-eyed, bright green eyes crossing funnily, and decided she had had enough.

"Isabella!" She screamed. The rest of her terribly late group came bursting out of the door. Isabella took one look and grinned insanely, vanishing before her eyes and appearing the next instant with her blades buried in the leader's back. Aveline charged through, Wesley's, her husband deceased as of the Blight, shield knocking over several men. Varric shot a volley of arrows, raining death from the heavens, and, without even looking at the aftermath, he arrogantly stripped off a glove and held out his hand to help her up.

"Maker's Breath, Hawke, that's the fifth time that someone's tried to kill us in this afternoon." He said, stroking his crossbow as he settled it against his back. "Bianca, you minx, that was beautiful!" he muttered to himself. Correction: to his weapon. Eavelynne rolled her eyes at his quirky obsession with an inanimate object and tossed her ruined staff away.

"At least it can't get any worse," she chuckled. "Not today, anyway. It's pretty late."

"You just wait, Blondie. Trouble has a way of finding people, especially you."

She pretended not to hear him and eyed Isabella as she held up a hand to high-five Aveline, at which she responded with a, "Over my dead body, whore."

"That can be arranged," Isabella cooed, returning her blades to the sheaths on strapped to her back, her movements purposefully provocative just to annoy her.

"Come on, guys. You can flirt tomorrow." Eavelynne said, strolling purposefully to the stairs that led out of the deserted alley way. She was stopped by yet another man, this time more heavily armored.

"I don't know who you are, friend," the man snarled, dark eyes flashing white in the dusk, "but you've made a serious mistake coming here. Lieutenant! I want everyone in the clearing! Now!"

They waited expectantly. The man reddened and drew his blade.

"Lieutenant!" He bellowed.

A man stumbling from behind him, and he turned around.

"Captain…" He fell, blood frothing from his mouth and gushing out of a wound in his side. Eavelynne stared at him. Who…?

"Your men are dead," a strong, arrogant voice issued. An elven male strode past the stunned captain, his eyes locked on hers. They were a dark green, she saw. "And your trap has failed. I suggest running back to your master while you can."

"You're going nowhere, slave!" the man said, slapping a hand down on his shoulder. Anger flared into the elf's eyes, and Eavelynne paled at the fury raging in them. This was no fury at an attempt at his life, she thought. Countless thugs had tried to kill _her_, and yet she had never been as hateful as that of the emotion shimmering in those eyes. No, this was a loathing that could have only been accessed to by careful nurturing of all the pain and abhorrence that had been tossed to the poor elf's way that had been accumulated over the all the years of suffering. She shuddered, spellbound, and was dizzily grateful when he broke the contact to raise a fist to the captain.

And plunged it straight into his chest, ripping his heart out.

Blue light seared her eyes, and she let out a cry, twin to the agonized groaning of the dying man.

"_I am not a slave_." He said, baring a feral grimace. Eavelynne opened her eyes and found herself gripped upright by him.

"Let her go," Aveline said, pulling out her mace. He did. She almost stumbled as she backed away, but never the less was grateful to be out of his reach. His bloodied gauntlet had left a red handprint on her sleeve.

"I… apologize." He said. "When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters, I had no idea they would be so… numerous."

"These people," Eavelynne said faintly. "they were after you?" Varric had moved protectively in front of her, and the guardswoman and pirate queen covered her sides. She was both grateful and slightly annoyed that they perceived her to be so vulnerable.

"Yes; my name is Fenris. These are Imperial bounty hunters working to recover a magister's lost property." _A slave, the man had said._ _They were trying to recapture him?_ Her defensiveness of helpless puppies and standing up for the outmatched leapt into the fray, and she was lost. "They were trying to lure me out into the open. Crude as their methods were, I could have not faced them myself. If I had known Anso had such capable and attractive contacts, I would have sought you out myself." There was a infinitesimally small hint of a smile.

"Um," She cleared her throat, thinking it was appropriate to change the subject. "I'm Eavelynne Hawke, and these are—". Isabella stepped in front of her.

"Honey, you have to do better than that. Hawke's got even more drunkards than me lining up by the dozen, but she doesn't know the difference between keeping her sex life healthy and enjoying herself for a while. She'll be a shriveled old prune before she ever lets anyone up her legs. Or dead." Isabella had been seductively stroking the faintly luminescent lines up his arm, and he knocked her back, rather ungentle.

"I suggest you keep your distance."

"Now you're just making it challenging. But I enjoy a challenge."

"Excuse me?" His voice had turned to iron.

"You're very lanky for an elf. I _like_ lanky." She purred.

"You seem to 'like' a lot of things." Eavelynne saw his fist clench. She definitely did _not _want a replay of what he had just done to the bounty hunter, although Isabella definitely deserved one.

"Nonsense; but when I see something I like, I go after it."

"Ah," Eavelynne interrupted, her face pink with embarrassment. "Do those markings have something to do with your value to your—the magister?" She bit her lip; she had almost said, "Your master".

"Yes; I imagine I must look strange to you." _Exotic,_ she thought; _beautiful. _"I did not receive these markings by choice. Even so, they have served me well. Without them I would still be a slave."

"If they really were trying to capture you, then I am glad we helped, but you could have just told me the truth." She replied unsteadily.

"If I had told you I needed you to act as a diversion in an attack, would you have actually assisted?" Fenris asked, eyebrow raised as he bent to loot the still bleeding corpse at his feet. She opened her mouth to respond, but Varric beat her to it.

"Hawke's a bloody saint. Once she's convinced that some kitten's caught in a tree, nothing will stop her. Isabella has a point; it'll be the death of her." The dwarf said, nudging Hawke's leg with his elbow as that was about as far as he got height wise.

"I have met few in my travels who have sought anything other than personal gain. You are a rare person, Hawke. If your short friend speaks true, then I'm afraid I require more aid." She could see Isabella just bursting with a smart remark on what 'aid' she could provide.

"Who are you calling short, skinny?" Varric complained, aiming a kick at Fenris. He stood up after he finished his rummaging with the corpse, neatly dodging the blow.

"It is as I thought. My former master accompanied them to the city." He hissed venomously. "I know you have questions, but I must confront him as soon as possible before he escapes." The way he stated his intentions with a chilling, dangerous look left no questions at all about what he wanted her help in.

_I can't,_ she thought. _I can't kill whoever is wanted dead. I'm a healer. I bring life, not death… Please, don't ask this of me._ But as in every other instance where she had been presented with the same choice, she was already speaking the words that defied her thoughts.

"If it means…" _Your freedom._ "…fighting more slavers, I'll accompany you." She said, cursing her tongue.

"I will find a way to repay you. I swear it. The magister is staying in a mansion in Hightown. Meet me there as soon as you can. We must enter before morning." Without another word, he spun on his heel and slipped past a corner. She stared in a daze at where he had just been until Isabella cleared her throat.

"As much as I would just _love_ spending the night with Mr. Broody, I actually have to be somewhere. The Hanged Man, you know." She said, lowering one eyelash in a sultry wink. Waving, she vanished into the shadows as was her usual dramatic exit.

"Usually I'm the one who comes up with the terrible nicknames. I'm with you, Hawke." He said, straightening his shirt collar.

Aveline groaned. "I'm going to have on hell of a headache in the morning. I respect your intentions, but I doubt this is exactly legal. Come on, let's get this over with." She said, sighing and starting for Hightown.

Eavelynne shook herself out of her reverie and followed.


	2. Unusual Meeting: Bait and Switch, Part 2

**Hawke**

As they slipped inside the mansion, Eavelynne could find no immediate difference in the gloominess of the house to the dark night outside. She subtly sent out a sliver of magic and lit a few torches still in place on the walls. The sudden brightness was almost blinding. It seemed as though the place had been abandoned eagerly, and was in terrible disarray. Curtains were half torn from their sorrowful positions at the windows, and tiles on the floor had been ripped off and strewn about. It was as silent as death.

"_Denarius,_" Fenris shouted, and she flinched so badly that she nearly tripped over a fallen barrel. "_I know you're here! Show yourself, coward!"_ So much for a stealthy entrance.

The warrior kicked open a door and charged through. She followed, using a much more restrained method of passing the wooden slab by twisting the door knob. As soon as she was in the next room, a ghostly breath was all the warning she got as countless shades materialized around her. Belatedly she remembered that her staff was lying in shattered bits all the way in Lowtown. Still, she brought her arm up in a sweeping motion, the way her father, Malcolm, had taught her before he died to ward off a row of foes. Glistening white ice sprang from her fingertips in a wide arc.

"Move out of the doorframe, Hawke! We can't get a hit in!" Aveline yelled as Varric charged through her legs, ripping a hole in her skirt and knocking her down. He wildly slammed into the shades on the other side, a small knife slashing at their insubstantial bodies. Aveline jumped over her as she lay on the floor and cleared a spot around Varric long enough to allow him to shoot some bolts into the fray.

She started to scramble up, but a burning touch gripped her wrist and tugged her sharply, sending her sprawling again. The fire bended it until her palm touched her arm. She screamed as the bone snapped with a loud crack, jagged ends peeking out of ruined flesh in a spray of blood. She clenched her fist, icy flakes radiating off of it, but the rage demon gripped her other hand before she could unleash her power and pulled her closer. Tears of agony ran down her face as fire crept up her arms to grip her body in whole.

Something tore at her mental shields twice as fast as she was rebuilding them. Her father had taught her and Bethany to guard themselves against the evil influences of the Fade, but pain had weakened her defenses severely, and she was in danger of being consumed by the hot, red anger battering against her will. She was losing her hold, lost in the embrace of searing torture…

"_Hawke!_"

Blessed coolness replaced the flame in a rush, and it was almost painful to her sensitized nerves. She staggered, blinking tears and blood—when had her forehead been cut?—out of her eyes, and was surprised to see Fenris crouched protectively in a battle stance before her. Glowing embers, the remnants of the rage demon, lay scattered at his feet, and she noticed that he was favoring one leg as blood ran down the other.

The shades swarmed closer, ever wary of the massive blade he was holding, but she knew that once he attacked they would overwhelm him while he recovered from the swing. Varric was on the other side of the room, desperately launching death into the crowd while Aveline kept them off of him. There would be no help from her other companions.

Closing her eyes, she ignored her own hurts and focused her magic on his leg. Her pain didn't matter: if Fenris fell, then she would die as well. The situation was not the same reversed. Slowly she intertwined her awareness to him. She envisioned a taut calf, smooth skin with improvised white swirls rising into way of a muscled thigh, where something even more curious lay, begging to be stroked…

She yanked her thoughts away, dizzily reeling and almost falling to the floor_. Maker's Breath_, she thought, _Isabella's crude speech has been getting to me._ She decided that instead of gradually melding her thoughts to his leg, as was the way Anders had taught her, to just execute the healing in one rapid stroke. Blue light glared brightly on black metal, and the blood stopped flowing from the crevices. She slid down the wall at her back, exhausted: Anders' way of healing had been much more… comfortable. _At least he won't be hampered by that leg wound._

Her attempts to help seemed to have had the opposite effect on Fenris. He lurched unsteadily as though he was drunk, and his head whipped around to stare at her. His eyes were wide as if though he could not believe them, and she jerked as the shades crept up on him.

Screaming in panic, her throat raw, she hurled herself at him. All she could see was that dark, talon-like hand reaching for him, and she recalled the burning pain one measly rage demon could inflict. His fist clenched the hilt of his sword as though _she_ was the danger, but she had already slammed into his legs. The hand passed over his white hair as they fell.

His armor was not the comfiest cushion to land on, and her wrist flared sickeningly. She disregarded it, knowing the end was only a few moments away, but she wasn't able to dismiss the fierce protectiveness that she felt for the man under her. A weak, rubbery shield barely enough to cover them exploded out from her. She would die before he was harmed…

Eavelynne promptly decided that her magic had mixed up intent and emotion together, and that it could go to hell. She opened her eyes when it became apparent that she wasn't dead and came face to face with Fenris' glorious lividness. From far away, Varric whistled at the no doubt poetic picture they made. The shades would be dead, then, if Varric could be gawking at their position, but his expression kept her mesmerized. He was pale with fury, and his green eyes burned with loathing. She could almost trace a path of the veins that bulged as he clenched his jaw.

"If I wasn't aware that a mage could do much worse than tackling someone with her puny body, you'd be dead by now." he hissed. She went cold. "I suggest you remove yourself _immediately,_ and start acting like the wrist-slitting witch you are rather than a roadside whore with less charm than a—" He stopped himself.

She stared at him, the blood draining from her face as her eyes glittered angrily. Somewhat shocked, as she was usually even-tempered, she let herself revel in the rage. _Must be the after effects of that damned demon,_ she wanted to slap him, although she didn't exactly what he was talking about. She certainly was no _blood_ mage. Her good hand was positively itching to leave a mark on his face, but it was currently holding her up, and she didn't fancy crumpling on him. No, she never wanted to touch him again. She didn't ever want to _see_ him again.

With some effort she rolled herself off of him. Immediately he stood, and Aveline shot him a glare as she shoved her mace under one arm and helped her up with another.

Some thanks for her saving your life," Aveline said, stating exactly what was on Eavelynne's mind. Her eyes narrowed at Fenris, but she didn't say anything more. Eavelynne allowed herself to be pulled up into a sitting position, but she didn't think she could get up, much less tell up from down. She cleared her mind and focused it on her bloody wrist, wincing as she persuaded the broken bits to weave back together, but she couldn't get rid of the acid taste in her mouth. There was a pause.

"My thanks, Serrah Hawke." Fenris said formally. She glared at him as he walked up ruined stairs, back to her.

"And mine," she said bitterly. "For had you not aided me then I would not be here." _I wouldn't have used magic on you, and we would have been better off dead because of it._ He didn't reply.

The light pulsed as she finished restoring her wrist to its functional form. She forced her emotions down, and more or less failed, as the steaming fury was turning to tears. There was a small scar: she supposed she would do a tidier job when she had the time and energy. She turned her critical, and somewhat blurry gaze onto Aveline and Varric.

"Are you two alright?" She said, her gaze lingering on the blood of Varric's tunic.

"We're fine. We'll get someone to brew us up some potions in no time," he said. "You don't look that great yourself."

She bit off a protest. He was right: she didn't feel great at all.

A great crash resounded from the upper floor, and several new curses she hadn't heard before drifted down to their ears. She supposed they were Dalish or Tevinter or something.

"Someone should go check on him." Aveline said. No one moved.

"No need," Fenris said sourly a few minutes later, striding back down the stairs. "Denarius is gone. I assume he's left some valuables behind. Take them if you wish. I… need some air." Varric was already running gleefully through the house like a kid with candy before the elf got out the door. She sat up and ignored Varric's suggestion, spreading a sort of healing mist through the room. Little bits of undetectable magic settled on Aveline and Varric, closing their wounds, and she stood up tiredly.

"Hey, Hawke!" Varric said, lifting something out of a huge chest and tossing it to her. She instinctually caught it, staggering at its weight. It was a staff, forged out of dark iron, and she planted it on the floor, leaning wearily on it. Its head was a pretty little thing, ornately carved with little clear stones: she supposed it would replace her old one well and truly.

To anyone watching her, she was merely watching Varric toss one thing or another out of his way as he ransacked the place with a bemused expression through heavy-lidded eyes, but on the inside her thoughts were on the apparently mage-hating enigma who had most likely left already. If the Maker was feeling gracious, perhaps she would never see him again.

She felt like someone had punged her in the gut at that, rather than malicious spite, and she unconsciously drifted to the door, stepping outside as soon as she deemed the dwarf had raided the place enough. The unexpected pang shivered through her, and she searched wildly for him.

Outside, there was a faint suggestion of light trickling from over the top of a building. She took a numb step, but stopped as someone suddenly spoke.

"It never ends." Fenris said heavily. He was leaning against a nearby pillar, arms crossed over his breastplate as he regarded her warily. The relief she felt was stunning and completely irrational. "I escaped a land of dark magic, only to have it hunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and into my soul. And now, I find myself in the company of yet another mage." he said, his voice laced with irony. He abruptly tired of his position and strode over: she abstractly noticed that his feet were bizarrely bare. She coolly met his gaze as he stared intensely at her. "But you, you have it in your blood. It corrupts all that it touches, and to be born with it…"

"Oh, okay. So you're going to kill me over a matter of birth, just like everyone else. Great, I feel so much better now that _that's_ out in the open." Eavelynne said sarcastically. "Foolish of me, indeed, to expect that at least there was someone in the world who wouldn't leap at the chance to cut my throat for being an apostate." Saying it 'loud and proud didn't make it hurt any less, she decided. By Andraste, all she wanted was to collapse in her cot at Gamlen's: the bed was really looking like heaven in her mind.

"If I was going to kill you, you would be dead already." He started pacing as if the conversation was too agitating to take in stillness. "Should've realized sooner…" he muttered to himself.

"Tell me then," he said, coming to a stop. "What manner of mage you are. _What is it that you seek_?"

"Sure, I'll tell you right after you apologize." she said archly after a moment. He frowned at her. "I thought as much. Besides, telling you would ruin all the fun."

"Mages aren't all the same," Aveline said, ever faithful as she came up to her side. "If they were, then I would be the first to judge them."

"I imagine I appear ungrateful," he finally said. She supposed it was as close to an apology as she was going to get. "If so, nothing could be farther from the truth. I did not find Denarius, but I still owe you a debt. Here is all the coin I have, as Anso promised."

She stared at his outstretched hand. Well, that was a first: someone was actually paying her for doing their dirty work without any coercion involved. When it became apparent that she wasn't taking it, Fenris' outstretched hand faltered and returned to his side.

"Very well. Should you find yourself in need of assistance, I will gladly render it."

"You'll pitch yourself in with the mages?" Her voice was rich with humor: it kept herself from breaking out into drained weeping.

"I will assist you as I deem best, yes. You are not Denarius. Whether you are anything like him remains to be seen. Should you ever have need of me, I will be here. If Denarius wants his mansion back, he is free to return and claim it. Beyond that, I am at your disposal."

Why _do I have the feeling that _I'm _the one who will be assisting him in his hunt for the rest of my life?_ Eavelynne thought sourly as she gave him a curt nod and began the long journey back to Gamlen's hovel. She tripped on her severely torn skirt, barely catching herself. Her wrist gave a tiny throb of pain. _Maker's breath; she would never be able to retain her dignity around anyone anymore, least of all _Fenris.

Varric looked sheepish as he handed her a new, shiny knife. She used it to slash away her skirt, freeing her range of movement greatly, although no doubt providing a very inappropriate view. She thought about leaving it there on the floor, but the nobles would gossip endlessly about it, and in the end she sighed and picked it up. Even as she stood back up, Varric's grin turning smug as he took in the robe that barely reached mid-thigh, a merchant in the distance began setting up shop.

She would be less noticeable as she descended down into Lowtown, and she trotted briskly away from Denarius' mansion. Her companions caught up soon enough, and no doubt thoughts of… of Fenris would quickly follow. But for now, she just succumbed to the brain-deadening numbness a breadth away from sleep, and left it all—damnedly annoying, mysterious mage-hunter included—behind.

**Fenris**

He paused in the doorway, looking for her to take back the words that had spilled out of him irrationally. He saw her half fall, cursing as she did, and he thought to lend her aid (after all, he _was_ in her service for the time being), but already she was picking herself up, hacking away at the bloodied fabric.

She was a mage, and the Maker knew mages were never to be trusted, but she was also a woman, and a very perplexing one at that. He caught himself staring at her exposed legs, her fine, unblemished calves and elegant, shapely legs, and swore under his breath, slamming the door shut behind him and on his wild thoughts. It was a while before he moved away from it.


	3. A Bitter Pill, Part 1

_This is right after the Deep Roads Expedition, since I didn't want to come up with the content between his first and second personal quests (yes, I'm lazy :P). I'll probably stop following the story somewhere in, or after, Act 3. Enjoy! Oh, and Fenris does have a bit of a low self-esteem with what being a slave and all. O3o~_

**Fenris**

His usual routine of waking up was proving particularly difficult as he lay on his small bed shoved in a dim corner of his mansion. Of course, it had changed slightly when he had met Eavelynne: muted dreams of her plagued him every night, leaving him feeling edgy and dissatisfied. They were a welcome replacement for the nightmares of the pain he had both suffered and inflicted as a slave, but were unsettling in their own right. In the mornings he was disoriented and tired from fitful sleep, blood throbbing through his veins and sweaty blankets entangled around his limbs. He may have lost his memories, but he was not so naïve to know that it was desire distressing his sleep. There, instead of leaping into action and continuing his daily vigil for his hunters, he would stare at the ceiling and ponder the mage who had ensorcelled his subconscious. The mage who had recruited him into her band of misfits bound by loyalties and favors, but had left him behind to wander the Deep Roads with her brother, Varric, and the guardswoman Aveline.

He sat up, running his hand in his hair and picking the damp strands from his face, and laughed at his sense of self-import. She would do fine without having a pathetic, contemptible elf in her expedition, and Aveline would make sure she came out unharmed. He forced himself to be content with that and pushed her out of his mind, if only for the moment.

He blew out the sputtering candle on his bedside table and dressed in the darkness. He pulled his armor on, piece by piece, and strapped the plate over his linen shirt and pants. He felt his way out of his room and down the stairs, walking to where he assumed the front door was.

The prickle of the hairs on the back of his neck was all the warning that he got before someone tackled him. He slammed into the floor, knocking the breath out of his lungs. His lyrium markings flared brilliantly, and he caught a glimpse of striking curves before the pressure on him vanished. A feminine laughter echoed about the empty mansion, and he sprang to his feet.

"Isabella," he said through gritted teeth.

"Morning, Love." She said, walking into the small circle of light that revolved around him. She pretended to shield her eyes.

"What do you want?" He forced himself to behave civilly: she and Eavelynne were friends, although he didn't quite care to understand how they were.

"My, my, testy aren't we? If you _must _know, I need a place to hide out." He raised an eyebrow. "Let's just say that I may have overreacted on my newest false lead for Castillon's relic, and Lowtown is crawling with people out for revenge right now. So, I thought of all the _fun_ I could have at Fenris' house, and here I am." She shifted her weight to another foot and subtly ran a hand down her side, if subtlety could convey such a blunt offer.

Shock ran through him, although he couldn't imagine why. Isabella had made it plain from the first day they had met that she was determined to add him to her list of conquests, and he shouldn't have been surprised she would cleverly manipulate the situation to her whim. If he told her to leave, he would be cruelly leaving her to the people out to kill her, and she would definitely get back at him.

Out of the blue, the thought of lying with her abruptly seemed reasonable. Here was a perfect escape for the yearning his body was in, and he had no doubt that sleeping with Isabella would have no strings attached. She would be merely an outlet, a means of venting exertion. Her smile became predatory as he took a step towards her, and her hands began unbuttoning her already extremely low neckline. He ran his hands up her arms, and she shivered, whispering his name in his ear and playing with it with her tongue.

Suddenly all he could remember was the day the expedition had left Kirkwall. Eavelynne had gazed at him with unfathomable emotion in her green eyes. She had said his name in acknowledgement, nodding at him before she passed by. Before she left. It was the last time he had seen her, and possibly the last time he ever would.

"I'm sorry," he managed, pulling back. "I—I have business elsewhere." He backed away from her towards the door, the light emanating from him slowly fading. Isabella didn't say anything. "Make yourself at home." He added belatedly. He felt the door knob with his hand and twisted it, and escaped into the bright day.

Once outside, he leaned over, hands on his knees. He took a moment to control his breathing, and stood back up, staring at nothing. "_What do you do when you stop running?_" he had once asked Eavelynne. He had expected something along the lines of predictable retaliation, but she had surprised him, truly a gentle soul. "_You start anew," _she had replied, eyes soft with compassion. "_Find a job, a hobby. Create a family, with a home, and a pretty girl in it for you to love."_ He closed his eyes in memory. "_I don't want your pity."_ he had snarled at her, hurting her only because he couldn't bear her response. Now, he wasn't even sure what he wanted.

Distracting himself from his thoughts, he watched the people walk about their daily business. A figure dressed in a plain dress caught his eye, perhaps because she stood out like a stain on a silken robe of the nobility. She was making her way towards the Viscount's keep, and looked tired, with red, swollen eyes as if she had been crying. He realized it was Leandra Amell, Eavelynne's mother, and felt as though someone had punched him in the gut. _Was it the death of her daughter in the Deep Roads that distressed her so?_

And then he was running.

Leandra had already entered the keep: the guards barred him passage, no doubt wondering what business an elf had with the Viscount. He didn't wait for them to check with their uppers, and instead darted off again, his bare feet barely touching the ground before they were extended in flight again._ Please,_ he begged with prayers of the informal kind to whatever deity cared to listen. _Please…_

**Hawke**

She padded along the Wounded Coast, her boots discarded somewhere way back, as she followed the haphazard tracks of her mabari. She was grateful for this simple task of tracking the dog down; it gave her something to do. Kept her busy. If she thought, if her mind escaped the careful blankness it was in and ventured towards paths more complicated than simple walking—_step, step, step_—then her existence became torture, knowing that Carver was gone…

She sank to her knees, hands buried in the sand to keep her upright. She broke the rules: she thought of him. She tried to shut the pain away, lock it up and bury it deep, but it was easier to just let it out. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself up. She took another step, and another.

Eventually she found her mabari prancing around in the waves, and she lowered herself to the ground. She hugged her knees close and rested her chin on them, eyes sightlessly following the happy, carefree hound. As the sun hovered over the horizon of violent waves, the dog settled itself beside her. It was almost dark when Fenris found her.

"Hawke," He muttered, kneeling warily before her. His voice sounded funny, strained almost. The mabari growled menacingly at him, and she made no sign that she recognized him. Her eyes never wavered from the sinking sun; her limbs never uncoiled from their stiff positions.

He tried again. "Eavelynne? Why are you out here? The Wounded Coast is hardly a place to be out at dusk alone." He continued when she said nothing. "Varric told me about what happened in the Deep Roads. I was… I would not wish your brother's end on anyone. You have my condolences." Her eyes flickered slightly: if he had not been staring at them he might have missed it. He sat on his heels, regarding her with a slight frown on his otherwise guarded expression.

"I was worried…" His voice trailed off, and she could no longer see his expression through the blur in her eyes. _Damn it all,_ she thought. She wanted to close them, to block out the man who refused to leave her be, but that would certainly cause her tears to spill. He cleared his throat, taking a breath, and when he spoke again it was with the steel and iron she was familiar with.

"I need to know why you left me here while you traipsed around with your dwarves and brother."

"Why?" she said, her voice hardly more than a feeble whisper. "It meant nothing to me whether you or Andraste Herself accompanied me." A lie. Her choice had been one she regretted with all her heart and soul. She withdrew slightly, a turtle in its shell, her gaze no longer on the sun. It feasted on Fenris' eyes, a color she had long missed in the Deep Roads. There was such a strange expression in them, almost like pain.

"It means something to me." His voice sounded strange, too, as if he was speaking through clenched teeth. He waited while she stared at him like a wounded animal.

"Varric came to me before we went," she finally said. "He was very frank. He said that we might not make it all out in one piece. Told me to only pick who I could bear losing." She couldn't look him in the eye, her gaze on the white swirls of his bare feet. Then the barrier holding back her memories of Carver broke, and traitor tears flooded her cheeks. She buried her face in the material covering her knees, unable to stop a shuddering sob from ripping out from her.

Suddenly and shockingly, she felt cool, gauntleted arms slide tentatively around her. She hurled herself at him, a rock in the onslaught of racking sobs, and did not notice when he stiffened at the contact. Eventually the pathetic crying stopped, and she continued, her head burrowed in the place where his neck and shoulder connected. His armor made a hard pillow, but there was nowhere else that she would want to be other than the safe circle that his gently stroking arms made. With the utmost caution, he pressed his lips against her soft, downy hair and closed his eyes. Oblivious, save for a slight pressure on her head, perhaps the resting of one's chin, she continued.

"I didn't take you… I sh—shouldn't… shouldn't have picked him. But he was so _determined. _Mother pleaded with me to leave him at home, and if I had listened, he would be here, he would still be alive…" _Maker's Breath, do the tears ever stop?_

"Hawke," he said hesitantly, tilting her face up. She hated when he used her surname: it sounded so formal, and formality had no place here in his comforting embrace. She knew she should move—_how Mother would react if she saw her eldest daughter in such a scandalous position!_—but she couldn't. If she was honest with herself, a part of her didn't want to. "Eavelynne," he remedied, giving a small chuckle. Her face felt hot: she hoped her thoughts weren't too transparent. "I—"

Whatever he had been about to say was interrupted as a blast of lightning slammed into him. The light from the spell blinded her. He arched his back and let out a strangled cry, his hands clutching and bruising her in the extremity of his agony. His armor conducted electricity, and the spell struck her with a torturing vengeance. Her own scream was a breathless twin as they clung together as the smell of burnt flesh filled the air.

"Back away from the slave with your hands on your head!" Someone shouted. The pain stopped, and they slumped against each other.

"Go," he said, his voice ragged. She froze in disbelief, and he pushed her half-heartedly. "Go!" he repeated, louder.

"Fenris?" She whispered. He gave her a hard stare, and her limbs complied unconsciously. She looked about, and saw that they were surrounded by several men, too many to count, and Tevinter by the look of them in the dusk. The blood drained from her face, and a denial formed itself on her lips. _Had they really been that absorbed that they had not heard their approach?_

Suddenly, determination coursed through her. Something must have shown on her face, for Fenris' expression begged her to reconsider. _Outnumbered, _he mouthed. She didn't care: they'd have to get past her to take him.

"He's not a slave," She murmured. She had left her staff back somewhere further back on the beach with her shoes, and she cursed her stupidity. Yes, she had been distraught with grief, but that was no excuse. Still, she was far from defenseless: this wasn't the first fight she had fought without it. She glanced at Fenris, wondering why he wasn't resisting, and was relieved to see him up and in an aggressive stance. He had not drawn his sword, but like her, he himself was a powerful weapon.

There was some laughter at her comment. "What's that, _darling_?" one of the men sniggered, leering at her. She threw a retaliating bolt of lightning as an answer, protecting Fenris with a small bubble of magic as her spell jumped from adversary to adversary. A binding heal closed up the blisters on her skin and his, and from the corner of her eye she saw her mabari tearing out throats and raking long cuts.

She raised her hand for another spell, but suddenly her hand was gripped by a Tevinter mage that had appeared from nowhere. She opened her mouth to speak the incantation rather than activate it through hand signals, but suddenly his magic invaded her, forcing itself down her throat and effectively gagging her as she clutched at her throat with her free hand, desperate for air.

"Not so fast," he said, almost conversationally, before darkness claimed her.

**Fenris**

Pulling his blade free of the ribcage that sheathed it, he whirled around, only to see her collapse in the mage's arms. His heart skipped a few beats before anger surged in his blood, and he cursed in Tevinter. He knew this was going to happen; he was no coward, but if shying away from a fight would prevent her from getting killed…

"Did you know that it takes only a few minutes for a strangulated victim to die? You can save her, you know: just come with us willingly. Denarius said nothing about a lover. Very sweet, I think. I think we should take her with us, as a little… _incentive _for you."

Eavelynne's forgotten mabari lunged at the mage, and that small distraction was all he needed. Phasing through the remains of the ambush, he left a trail of death behind him. His fist slammed into the mage's temple, and he collapsed. The mabari looked a bit chagrined, but it turned to hunting down the last few survivors. Ignoring the fallen mage, he turned to her.

She was deathly pale, and he lowered his lips to hers the way he had dreamed of doing and blew. Pulling back, he saw no rise of her breasts in breathing, and he tried again, more forcefully. He gripped her shoulders and shook. Her hair quavered in a shimmering wave of golden silk as her head lolled from side to side.

He blocked the desperate horror he was feeling and called upon his rage, punching the mage awake.

"Make one move, and I kill you. Remove the spell on her."

"I prefer to see you suffer," the mage spat. He slammed his head into the sand, holding it there till his struggles began to weaken. He pulled his head back up by his hair, and the mage gasped for air.

"Remove it!" he snarled, features twisted into a savage scowl. He phased his fingers half an inch into his skull. The mage grimaced in pain, and he heard Eavelynne inhale in a frantic gasp. "Let me go," the mage rasped.

"Who sent you here?" he demanded. He froze at the answer given, and then twisted his neck sharply. The mage collapsed, and he rose only to sink next to Eavelynne, who was coughing and choking to no end.

"Eavelynne!" he said sharply. Her eyes fluttered, and he grasped her hand, pulling her close.

"Fenris," she gasped, and the hollowness in his torso lifted. "What… who…"

"Denarius' main force is hiding out in abandoned slave caverns near Sundermount under the rule of his pet, Hadrianna." The name was poison to his tongue. "We need to go after them tonight before they escape. I understand if you wish to return to Kirkwall, however." He worded it carefully so that she felt no obligation to assist him. Vengeance ran out of control in him: no one would guess that Anders was the one possessed. He felt pain at separating himself from her again, even for the span of one night, and buried emotion under his need for retribution.

"What? Of course I want…" She trailed off. He regarded her curiously; what did she really want? "We had better get going." She said, attempting to sit up. He locked his arms around her as she swooned dizzily, and hoisted her up into his arms. _By Andraste, she was small..._

"Save your strength for later. We won't be able to stop by to get the others to help; they could be gone by then." he said, breaking into an easy run. She looked ready to protest, but instead laid her head against his breastplate. They came by her hound gnawing on her discarded staff and boots, and Eavelynne whistled for him. The mabari, bloody well-trained beast, picked up her possessions in his jaws and followed.

He did not tire of carrying her: she weighed as much as a feather. He felt odd, coziness battling with anger and bloodlust. Maybe he had known of the perplexity his insides were experiencing before his memories had been erased, but the lightness and confusion she introduced to his life were entirely new to him. In a way, she frightened him; his sentiments for her made him vulnerable, a chink in his armor. He could not allow this to proceed any further: a man like him, an _elf_ with no past was unworthy of a highborn human, much less Eavelynne Hawke.

He hardened his features before he came to a stop at the slaver caverns, so that she would not see the weakness on his face as he woke her from her near-doze.

"Let's go." he said.


	4. A Bitter Pill, Part 2

**Fenris**

So painfully aware of Eavelynne was he that when she gave a sharp, stifled gasp he was by her side in an instant, blade ready to run through whatever opponent threatened her. When he saw no immediate foe raising staff or sword to strike her, he relaxed and regarded her quizzically with one black—at odds with his mop of unruly white hair—raised eyebrow. He half expected a cherubic blush, as was the normal response to his rarely used expression, but instead she was as white as a sheet.

Following her gaze, he saw a naked elder lying supine on a table in the middle of the room. He had to admit the sight of the blood-drained lacerations was a tad horrific even to his hardened heart, and he wondered how he had crossed the room without noticing it.

"See for yourself," he said drily, bitterly. "The legacy of the magisters. Does this bother you? After all, you mages always find a way to justify your needs for power, don't you?" This perhaps was not the most tactful thing to say to her, as fragile—yet obviously powerful—as she was, but their shared scene on the Wounded Coast had been too much. She had unwaringly come too close to his confused sentiments, and he had to push her away, had to be cruel to her lest... lest she thought him weak and emotional. Before her natural compassion overwhelmed him; before she became attached to him.

Shock, followed immediately by such hurt that he shifted his gaze, a curious feeling stabbing through his chest, ran across her delicate features. She physically wavered, leaning on her iron staff for support, and he thought she might weep or utter an angered outburst she would later regret, but she surprised him. She straightened and made an attempt to wipe away the wounded look on her face, entirely unsuccessful. "Yes," Eavelynne said, whisper soft, a few moments later. "It does bother me."

And indeed, he could see that it did: every death that she saw and partook in destroyed a bit more of that gentle spirit and demeanor he almost envied, and he pondered this astonishing revelation.  
>"You don't need to kill anyone; I'll take care of that. Just don't hit me with any of your spells." he said curtly, cursing his allowance of kindness, flawed as it was. He was not strong enough to attempt a smirk, but managed to keep an insolent expression as he turned around and strode down the dark corridor angrily.<p>

After a moment he could hear her footsteps as they padded after him, and he did not allow his stride to shorten to match her slighter build. He flung open the door and was almost glad to see a horde of Tevinter mercenaries. It meant that he could bury thoughts of her in bloodlust and rage, and he charged recklessly at them, cutting through them like a razor-sharp knife through butter. His vision was red, he tasted blood…

He instantly knew by her ragged, shuddering intake of air that she was hurt. Guilt and shame slammed into him. _You should have watched her, should have cared for her,_ his conscience tormented. _She had her mabari, her spells,_ he retorted. _You attempted to justify your vindictiveness to her, and now you attempt to justify yourself?_ This last thought he did not acknowledge, and he finished off the final Tevinter before he spun around.

"Eavelynne!" He said, reaching for her. Her pupils were dilated with pain, her eyes wide with shock, and her hand was pressed to her thigh where blood gushed from her fingers, but she was still faster than him as she dodged his grasp and staggered past him. Rejection stung, and he internally laughed at himself. He had what he wanted, didn't he? She hated him, and therefore they were both safer because of it.

**Hawke**

She darted to the corpse of her mabari, ignoring both Fenris and the jarring pain that shot up her leg. Almost corpse, she remedied; as she collapsed before his furry form, his lungs gave a painful heave. She gathered her magic about her and shot it through his body in an instant. Nothing happened, and she stared at the dog as he went limp in her arms. Even as a small child, she had always been the most powerful mage in her family: her magic didn't _ever_ fail. She did it again, and the blue light bounced off the un-receiving body into her own wound. She didn't wince as the flesh pulled itself back together over the gushing blood.

A familiarly talon-like hand descended on her shoulder. She merely pulled it off before she lay the spell on her mabari again: she knew Fenris didn't like to be in contact with a mage. It had once bothered her, but in the blank state of denial her mind was in it seemed immaterial.

This time the hand was more forceful, and she struggled against him. He pulled her up and then spun her around, embracing her gently. As she stood there numbly, her head barely reaching his collarbone, feeling began to come back. She gave a single sob. Not again, not another death so soon. Not another comfort session from Fenris: she didn't know if she would survive its unreasonable, vengeful aftermath. It didn't make sense that he was hugging her; the man was a bundle of contradictions. It also didn't make sense that enjoyment was creeping up on her, and she damned her emotions to darkspawn hell. She pulled away. He would only hurt her later, she was quickly learning. Behind her, the mabari disintegrated into ash with a bright flare, and a breeze of unknown origins lifted it away. He let her go without comment, and they continued.

Some several killings later, in which she summoned a grieving haze to block out the blood and screams while Fenris cleared the way, she stumbled upon an elven girl huddled in a shady corner, trying to look inconspicuous. If she hadn't been half inclined to seek the darkest crook available and burst into tears, she might have missed her. The girl was obviously not a Tevinter soldier, and she knelt before her, forcing her deadened voice to come out soft and compelling.

"Here, poppet, come on out where I can see you. I'm not going to hurt you." She said, beckoning with a hand. "Are you alright? Did they touch you?" In the light, she could see that girl was of similar age as her when she first came to Kirkwall. Garish, colorful make-up ran down the girl's angular, gaunt face, tears playing havoc with the paint.

"They've been killing everyone!" The girl's voice came out panicked and slightly dazed. "They cut Papa, _bled_ him!"

"Why?" Fenris said, coming up behind her. She jumped, startled: he usually charged bluntly into battle, not taking the time to sneak covertly. "Why would they do this?" His voice sounded pained, and she looked up at him, seeing the recognition of previous slave to suffering slave.

"The magister… she said she 'needed power', that someone was coming to kill her." Fenris blanched.

"It's not your fault," Eavelynne said automatically, wanting anything on his face other than that appalled look on his face. She froze—why did she keep on purposely exposing herself to further tongue lashings from him?—and turned her gaze back to the girl an instant before Fenris looked at her.

"We tried to be good, we did everything we were told. She loved Papa's soup! Why would she kill her? I don't understand any of it." She was crying. "Everything was fine until you came!"

"It wasn't." Fenris said, closing his eyes in pain. "You just didn't know anything better."

"Are you…" The girl suddenly sounded slightly cheered. "Are you my master now?"

"_What?_ No!"

"But—but, I can cook! I can clean!" She was suddenly desperate. "What else will I do?"

"What's your name?" Eavelynne said, smiling. "Orana, is it? My name is Hawke, and my mother, Leandra, has just bought back our ancestral estate. I expect that it will take quite a lot to keep it hospitable. You can come with me to Kirkwall."

"Oh! Thank—"

"I didn't realize that you were in a market for a slave," Fenris growled from behind her. She closed her eyes, weary of the acidic remarks, and wondered at the obvious fact that he didn't trust her at all. Andraste's ass, why was he so stereotypical of mages?

"I gave her a _job_, Fenris," She snapped, pushed to her breaking point. She pressed her lips together, annoyed that she had slipped even for a moment. He was silent for awhile.

"Then… that's good: my apologies." Before she could gape at him, he strode off. "Let's find Hadrianna and be done with this cursed place."

She pulled Orana up and towed her along by her hand. Encumbered with her, she soon lost sight of him and followed the trail of bodies that inevitably led to Fenris, towering over who she assumed to be Hadrianna. Orana gave a whimper and hid behind her, face buried in the skirts of her robe.

"Stop!" Hadrianna demanded, like a child who has no defenses toward a righteous parent save indignant statements. "You do not want me dead!"

"On the contrary, there is only one person I want dead more." He said, lifting his blade high above his head.

"I have information, _elf,_" she hissed, "and I will trade it for my life."

Fenris spat at her. "Hah! The location of Denarius, I expect? What good will that do me?" The muscles of his arms bulged. "I'd rather he lose his pet pupil!"

"You have a sister!"

He stumbled as he strove to divert the sword's path, and she took that opportunity to fling a spell that would ignite him into flames. Eavelynne knew the counter spell: she and Bethany had practiced it many a time. Hadrianna glanced at her in alarm, blue eyes wide with fright in her long, narrow face.

"You ally yourself with a _mage_? You are the last person I would expect… What is she to you?" she said.

Fenris glanced at her, dark eyes unreadable. He turned back to Hadrianna, and raised his blade once more.

"You wish to reclaim your life? Let me go, and I will tell you where she is." The magister staggered up, hope flaring into her eyes. Eavelynne forced herself to view the woman coldly, mimicking Fenris. He leaned closer so that Hadrianna and he were eye to eye.

"So I have your word? I tell you and you let me go?"

"Yes," the words were forced through clenched teeth, "you have my word."

"Her name is Varania. She is in Tevinter, serving under a man named Ahriman." She said, stammering in her haste to say the words. Fenris made her stop.

"A servant, not a slave." It wasn't a question.

"She's not a slave—"

"I believe you." Fenris said. His skin blazed blue, and Hadrianna's eyes widened. "W—"

Eavelynne closed her eyes at the sound of ravaged flesh and her agonized cry. The bones of her ribcage snapped, one by one, and she put her hands over Orana's ears. Blood ran from her mouth, a black wave, and Fenris withdrew his fist with a sickening sound. His fist hissed and sizzled as the light smoked away from it, and he turned back to her, that flawless poker face that rivaled Varric and Isabella's in place once more.

"We are done here," He said, striding past her without looking at her.

"Fenris, wait," She reached after him, but Orana fumbled her attempts. "Do… you want to talk about it?"

He froze for a moment, then spun back around and glared at her. "No, I don't want to talk about it!" He snarled, almost shouting. His voice moderated slightly at her expression, but the snarl stayed. "This could be a trap! Denarius could have sent Hadrianna here to tell me about this 'sister'. Even if he didn't, trying to find her would still be _suicide._ Denarius has to know about her, has to know that Hadrianna knows." His voice was distressed, and he immediately stopped. He started turning back again. "But all that matters that I finally got to crush this _bitch's_ heart. May she rot, and all the other mages with her."

She flinched. She knew he didn't mean it, and she _knew _that he was speaking from grief and pain, but the words were still crushing blows to her heart. She felt hollow inside, like a mirror shattered into millions of ethereal pieces, a sad reminder of what once had been.

"Maybe…" She struggled to keep her voice politely concerned, as a friendly _mage_ might, and failed miserably. "Maybe we should leave?" She placed a hand on his shoulder.

"_No!" _The word was an explosion. "I don't want you comforting me." Ah, and there were the fragments of the mirror being pulverized into dust. Only Orana's tenacious hold on her legs kept her standing upright, and she almost wept as she saw his profile in the dark cavern light as he turned back _yet again_ for another vicious tongue lashing.

"You saw what was done here! There's always going to be some reason, some excuse why mages need to do this." The words were vehement, venomous. "Even If I found my sister, who knows what the magisters have done to her. What has magic touched that it doesn't spoil?" He spat, every bitterly enunciated consonant another ripping wound. A tear dripped down her cheek, a silent, pleading entreaty for him to leave before the tear became a torrent. Something in that plea reached him, and he turned away, hand hiding his expression.

"I…" He exhaled. "I need to go." He walked away without looking at her again.

Once she was out of sight, she let herself start sobbing wretchedly. Eventually Orana tugged at her hand.

"Mistress? Mistress, forgive me for saying so, but your… friend is mean. I'm glad that he didn't want to be my master. You seem nicer."

She looked up and smiled through the tears. "Yes, but… he can't help it. Or won't. I suppose it's better this way. Better for him, at least."

Orana looked puzzled. After a moment she said, "Mistress, it's getting dark. Is Kirkwall far away from here?"

"I suppose we had better get going." _How gallant of him_, she thought sarcastically. _I hope to Andraste that nothing else attacks us before we make it back._ Running through the Free Marches' map she had stored in her brain and calculating the long trek she had back, plus slowed down by Orana, the odds didn't seem good. She sighed, and began to retrace her steps out of the holding caves.

Outside it was raining. That was good: she could cry freely without frightening Orana. She shielded them as best as she could, gave Orana her staff to hold and hiked her up onto her shoulders. She started walking. The rain that her drained magic did not completely stop was chilling against her hot tears.


	5. Broken Vow, Shattered Heart

**Fenris**

Bodhan let him in, looking a little surprised to see him at such a late hour. He asked no questions, and for that he was grateful.

"The lady's in her bath," said her manservant as he left Fenris to make himself comfortable by the fire. Sitting before it, he rested an arm on his knee and stared into its depths, mesmerized by its patterns. Doubts assailed him, cries of '_How could you do that to her?'_, and he summoned the vacant expression he had seen Eavelynne use as a protection from the anguish that assaulted her often, thrusting his thoughts away and locking them in shadow. He had thought long and hard enough over her, unsure whether he dared to feel for a woman, a _mage_, to the point of where rationality was at its breaking point. And so, here he was, awkwardly vying for an opportunity to take away the pain he had forced on her, and in so lightening his own.

Some time later, he came to himself with a painful crick in his neck from sleeping in such fashion. Chagrined that he had, out of all the times possible, fallen asleep in _her _estate, he stood up. He started to stretch, but saw someone watching him from the balcony of the second floor. Looking up, wincing at the lance of pain in his neck, he saw her watching him. He opened his mouth to say something, _anything,_ but words fled his mind.

"I've been thinking about what happened with Hadrianna…" He blurted, half hiding behind a hand that he was using to rub his chin. He was unable to continue.

"Fenris," Eavelynne said softly after a long, long period of wait. He could see her choosing carefully what to say. "I was worried about you. I didn't know where you had gone; I—" He saw her bite her lip to keep silent. "It was nice of you to leave Orana and I like that." Her tone was light, dismissal, teasing: the words were not, and he cringed on the inside.

"I apologize for that. I took out my anger on you, undeservedly so. I was…" He gestured vaguely, feeling unsettled in her presence and more than a little foolish. "…not myself. I'm sorry." He felt the terrible insufficiency of his reply, and knew that she did as well. He would never forget the look on her face as his terrible words had taken effect. He would never unleash his wrath at his past on her again, never take the easier choice to injure her rather than care for her.

She started down the stairs, fingers trailing on the railing and over Isabella's crude carvings. He took a stride to her where she lingered on the last step, a hesitant expression on her face, but stopped.

"I needed to be alone; when I was still a slave, Hadrianna would ridicule me, deny my meals, and hound my sleep, but because of my status I was powerless to respond, and she knew it." He continued with his list of excuses vehemently, glaring at the floor as though it was the origin of all his problems. He wanted to look up at her, to feast upon her image like a starved man, but was afraid to.

He had originally intended to keep her at a distance, but after the day's events his plans were backfiring on him. In the relative safety of her new estate, he was finding it very difficult to even consider speaking harshly to her. Quite the opposite, he was sweating over her reaction, where before he could have easily dismissed it. He had made no secret of his scorn for demon and sorcerer alike; what if he had hurt her too much? Or worse, what if she did not return his affections in the way he felt for her? And feel for her he did; he could admit that to himself. Her kindness today had nearly been the ruin of his self control: as it was, he was hanging from a thread over an abyss he was too fearful to look inside.

"The thought of her slipping from my grasp now: I couldn't let her go, Hawke. I _wanted_ to, but I couldn't." His traitor eyes crept to her feet, and he forced himself to not look at her. _Elven scum,_ some whisper of memory tormented him. _You are not fit to gaze upon her; go back to your sluttish kitchen maids and your little elven whores. _She was a master of holding back insensitivity, whereas he was a volatile man unable to succeed in the mildest diplomacy. He should leave, now, before she felt pressured to show him kindness.

"You wanted to?" She questioned, moving closer. He instinctively took a step back, and she stopped her approach, a small wrinkle marring her brow the only indication of distress.

"I couldn't forgive her, Hawke: not then, not now. I wanted her to experience just a little of the suffering she put me through all those years. I felt such… disquiet. Hate. This loathing: I thought I had gotten away from it, but it dogs me no matter where I go. To feel it again, to know that it was _they_ who planted it inside me, it was too much to bear." He whispered, feeling ashamed. Still, she was silent. Still, she would not put to voice how repulsed she was with him. He felt a flicker of anger at that. Why wouldn't she admit it—that he was no company for the roughest broad, much less the Lady Hawke, whose tales of charm and benevolence were on every tongue from the Undercity to Hightown—was beyond him.

"Is that…" She swallowed, the firelight playing against her slender throat. "Is that why you said what you did? Because you hated them so much that massacring them wasn't enough? That you had to take out your anger, piece by spiteful piece, on the one person who wouldn't fight you, someone who stood by you?"

In turn, her words struck deep retaliating blows to his own heart. He felt shaky, and took several breaths to steady himself.

"If there is anything in the world that I regret, it is that I caused you pain." he said. He saw her swallow again, as if, somehow, it hurt her to hurt him. That was wrong: he would never be the cause of her agony again. He swore it.

"Ah, but I didn't come here to burden you further. I'll—I'll see you in the morning." _How she must gaze upon you in revulsion,_ the voice said. He turned, head bowed, for the door.

"Fenris, wait—" She said, a pale, delicate hand locking around his arm in one quick movement. Defensive battle training, shock (this was the first skin-to-skin contact he had had in too many years to count), and pure want ran up the lyrium markings in one deadly explosion, destroying any boundaries he had towards her and lighting them into a blinding blue. His face contorted into a fierce glower as he slammed her into the wall, his cruelly talon-like and gauntleted hands ripping through the cloth at her arms. She cried out, a sound of surprise and hurt, and he was abruptly brought to his senses. How easily he broke his vow.

He stared at her, his eyes slowly contracting back to normal as he blinked, but his view was changed forever. Where he once saw purity, beauty, and grace, he began to notice the little things, the lustful ones. He was unable to keep his eyes off of her as his mind ran rampant, indulging in its deepest fantasies that he had thought buried under the deepest nadir of unconsciousness.

She was wide eyed, her moist lips parting ever so slightly as she stared at him, breasts heaving in air. Her silky coral nightgown was held together by only a sheer, red sash, and in places it had parted where his assault had displaced the material. She was so close, so very, very close, and as their eyes locked, hers turned a deep violet shot through with vivid gold streaks: a powerful combination of magic and craving. He tried to let her go, to leave the instant he did, but his damned limbs had a will of their own, a will that was controlled by unspeakable desires, and would not obey. With a massive effort of will, he loosened his grip on her arms.

And then she was kissing him, her lips tasting like honey and some undefined herb as he felt them. Her hands shot up to his hair, and she gripped them as though she would never go. A moan ran from her throat, vibrating as she hooked a leg to his hip, and then suddenly his back was to the wall. The motion knocked the air out of his lungs, and as he grunted and broke off to breathe, her sweetly wet tongue traced the markings just below his lower lip. They tingled at her touch, a faint luminance reflecting in the sun-struck depths of her eyes, and then their lips were locked together again. He held her closer, hands gripping at her as if he would never be sated until they were entwined into one, and his last coherent thought was that it was a pity they would certainly never make it to her new, luxurious four-post bed.

He stumbled over to the fire. His armor was off before he knew it; the thin layer of cloth between him and her was even less of a match. The thin red sash he removed with his teeth, watching in bemusement as a fine shudder racked her body.

"Fenris," she gasped. He smiled, and began painting her body with his lips, alternating between stroking licks and absorbing kisses and sharp nips. She shifted, her back half arcing as she was unable to stop a moan. "Fenris, I mean it…"

His next nip had her writhing and panting for air. "Fenris!" she said sharply. "Will you let me finish a sentence?"

He raised his eyebrow, and a heady blush turned her already rosy cheeks into a comely red. "Perhaps, if you allow me a question in return."

"Alright then, you go first."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he said, suddenly hesitant. The question was incredibly foolish, not regarding her desire but of his ability to leave her side, this night of all, as desire gripped his body and made it difficult to form a semblance of lucidity. He saw her brows draw together, a little frown appear on her face. "I'm… fractured. Not whole. A man, an _elf_, who damages what is dearest to him, is not a man at all."

She closed her eyes. "Don't be stupid. I don't want to hear you ever demean yourself again." She cupped his face with her hands. He pressed his lips against one of her palms; her skin was as soft as a petal, and smelled of fragrant embrium.

"Your turn."

"I… need to know what comes after this." she said after a moment. "If we stay here, in the morning everyone will know what has happened. That would be… a little embarrassing, not to mention a cruel rebuff of Mother's intended marriage arrangements for me."

"Oh," he said. "Of course. I understand." He pulled away from her hand as despair, followed by such intense jealously it shocked him, coursed through him. _Who else did she favor?_

"That's not what I meant, Fenris!" She said, pouncing on him before he could draw completely away. Her hands connected to his chest, forcing him down. Her hair fell across him, a shimmering wave of gold that blocked out the rest of the world. He took in her from this point of view, and she flushed. "Mother is… misguided. I didn't have the heart to tell her that… well… you had better not leave. I—I mean, if you want to…"

"Eavelynne," he said, sitting up with his arms around her. Her cheek pressed against his pounding heart. "There's nothing I want more than you."

"Not even Denarius' head on a silver platter?"

He smiled, nuzzling the crook of her neck. "Nothing."

"Liar."

"I'm completely serious. Are you saying that _you _don't want this?"

"Fenris!"

"Alright, then, is that what you really wanted to ask?"

"I… Will you be here in the morning?" She said, combing her fingers through the white hair on the nape of his neck. He kissed her neck.

"If you want me to be." He felt, rather than saw her glower.

"I want you, Fenris. Always."

And with that, she had sealed her fate. He pressed his lips to hers again, drinking in her moans and sighs and the power that flared bright in her violently dark purple eyes. The flames that writhed in them sent out a siren song, a primitive call of magic and yearning that had his lyrium marks blazing in response. He inhaled sharply of their joined breath as they seared a ring of fire across his skin. The agony was familiar: he was able to dismiss it beyond the much more pressing matter of his raging ache to bury himself in her, to press against every secret curve, to discover and avail himself of her sweetly sacred flesh.

Her hands ran across his body, trailing over the flaming sting. They taunted and teased, and he threw his head back, breaking the melded meeting of lips, sweat running down his neck. He started as her tongue licked it and played with a taut nipple, and he decided to return the favor.

He traced a path down her body, fingering her rose-tipped breasts as they drifted still lower. He heard her breath catch, and he lowered his mouth were his fingers previously tormented. He watched for her reaction, and smiled against her as she buried her hands in his hair and arched against him, a fine sheen of sweat trickling in-between the valley of her chest. He pulled back scarcely an inch, and she whimpered in protest, struggling against his gentle but firm hold against her hips.

"Fenris…"

"Command me," he said, his voice husky and dark, as he grasped her wrists with one hand to prevent her from pulling him close. She groaned in frustration and muttered a curse, and he grinned. She said something that he didn't catch, and his vision went hazy.

"_Pleasure me," she says, her dark curls matting to her head. She flicks his lip, and he tastes salty blood. From somewhere beyond him, a familiar voice sounds in mirth. _

"_Best do as she commands," Denarius says. He flexes his arms; they are bound behind his back, cramped and painful. He can phase through them with ease, but to do so would be to anger the Master. The woman on top of him grinds against his stomach, distracting him from his thoughts and sending waves of agony via his dull tattoos. He screams, desperately trying to choke off the sound. _

"_Pathetic elven wretch," she says. "You are in no condition to satisfy me, and the novelty is wearing off fast. I pity the slave girls if this is all they have to rut with in their cots." Her hands burn and she places them in between his legs. The next scream fails to be muted, but Denarius' laugh is still heard over the horrific sound. _

_She mounts him, and the action feels as though his skin is being flayed. Settling into an ancient rhythm of rise and fall, she finishes quickly, brutally. She wastes no time in gathering her skirts about her, and heaves herself off of him._

"_Did you enjoy him, my dear?" Denarius says, offering an arm._

"_It was fine," she says. She hesitates as they turn for the door, and holds out a hand to him. "But there's no gratification like that of blood," The black liquid dripping down his chin and down his body lifts towards her, and he screams again, the sound strangled and cracked, as a thousand needles stab deep._

"_Well said," Denarius laughs, diverting some of the blood from the air-borne stream to his own hand. "Well said."_

_Nightmare consumes him._

**Eavelynne**

She gradually drifted past the blissful, golden glow towards consciousness. Had she been a cat, she would have been purring. A smile burst forth as she opened her eyes, thinking to drag Fenris down into the almost-intoxicated happiness, and for a moment she felt panicked as her eyes encountered naught but the dying embers of the fireplace. She had been so spent after their arduous lovemaking that she had fallen asleep almost immediately. For a moment, her existence stilled as she wondered if he had indeed left, but then she dismissed the idea as she remembered that he had promised to stay 'til morning. _He broke his promise to Hadrianna,_ a small, worrisome voice whispered in her mind. _His word is not to be trusted._

She turned over, encountering a blanket wrapped about her lithe form and a bowl of cream-filled pastries. She blushed: she had hoped to spare Bodhan the shock of seeing her and Fenris together as they had been, but, efficient manservant he was, he had no doubt encountered their exposed forms in the mid' of night. Finding that she was, indeed, ravenous, she stuffed one in her mouth and finally spotted him, leaning against the arch that led to the foyer. She propped herself up on one arm, licking the cream from her lip with a shy but seductive smile. The smile faltered as she saw his guarded expression.

"Was… was it that bad?" She said. Her voice came out croaky and shaky, and she wished Bodhan had added a cup of water to her snack. She made an effort to lighten her tone, as if joking. The happy glow was gone. She thought that tonight had been lovely, beautiful, a thing of poetry and song (although she would kill herself before she gave it to Varric as story fodder), but it had been her first time. Perhaps she had failed in some way, become yet another bland catalogue in Fenris' undoubted conquests, with what the appeal of a brooding, tortured man, not to mention his exotic, striking looks. Perhaps he did not share her ecstasy at all.

"I'm sorry, it—it's not—it was—fine." he said, unconsciously repeating the same words from his misted memory. He turned away from her the instant before his poker face broke, and misery crushed her. She had no words. "No… that is… insufficient." She looked at his face and was shocked; she had expected disappointment, anger, perhaps even trivial amusement, but not a look of intense pain.

"Your markings… they hurt, don't they?" She said, worried. She sat up, and he flinched at her movement.

"It's not that," he said. At the very least, he wasn't denying it. She began gathering her frazzled magic around her to numb his pain, but his next words stopped her.

"I… had begun to remember… my life before. Just_ flashes_. It's… too much." He paced slowly about, his gaze wild. He shook his head. "This is too fast. I—I cannot… do this."

"Your life before?" She said, trying for a cheery tone. Shouldn't he be rejoicing that his memories were finally coming back? And yet his words chilled her to the bone. She pulled the blanket tighter about her and wished that the fire had more wood. "What do you mean?"

"I've never remembered anything from before the ritual, but there were…" He put a hand to his head, and she noticed that he was wearing his armor. Her sash was tied about his wrist, and a small crest she had placed before the fireplace attached to his belt, but the bemusing sight did not relax her as much as it should have. "…faces; words. For just a moment I could recall all of it," he said, his voice momentarily fervent before fading away into a deadened, flat tone. "And then it slipped away."

"Don't you want to get your memories back?" she said.

"Perhaps you don't realize how upsetting this is," he said, turning away. She longed to comfort him, but she did not know how he would react. "I've never remembered _anything, _and to have it all come back in a rush," he said, lifting his hands and clenching his fists as if to grip his memories, "only to _lose _it… I can't…" his voice broke on the last word, as did her heart for him. "I can't." She physically leaned towards him, her arms aching to soothe him. She wrapped them about her midsection, feeling strangely hollow and vulnerable.

"We can…" she pleaded, struggling with words for a moment as she tried to hold back the desolation that threatened for a moment. "We can work through this."

"I'm sorry," he said, backing away. The anguish on his face was plain to all. "I feel like such a fool. All I wanted was to be happy… just for a little while. Forgive me." He turned to leave, his shoulders slumped, defeated. The wrong words, angered, scared words, were on her lips, and she choked them back.

"No…" she whispered, her hand extended in appeal as she clutched the blanket to her breast, but he was already gone. Her heart thumped twice in the complete stillness before hot tears ran down her face, and she raised the blanket to her mouth to muffle her shuddering cries and hysterical sobs.


	6. Anew

**Eavelynne**

Someone rapped on her bedroom door. She made no move to answer it; Bodhan would see them away.

The rap came again, and then the door opened to reveal her mother, a look of annoyance on her face. She groaned and covered her eyes with her arm.

"Young lady, I think you've sulked quite enough, and if you haven't come to terms with it yet then it's time you had a frank talk." Mother said, sitting by her side on the bed.

"I really, really do not want to have this conversation."

"Alright, then, I'll just leave you to your brooding for another month or two."

"I do not _brood!_"

"Forgive me, I mistook you for Fenris."

She flinched at the name, feeling suddenly lightheaded and nauseous. She reached for the chamber pot and retched into it. When she finished, she spat and wiped her lips, leaning back onto the rumpled, silken pillows. After a moment, her mother's hand smoothed back the hair curling about her brow.

"Sorry, dear. If it makes you feel better, heartbreak is nothing foreign to mankind. Besides, this might do you some good, with you breaking hearts left to right."

"_Not_ helping." Her sudden flash of temper left her feeling empty, and she could barely summon a state of inquisitiveness as to wonder what her mother meant. She sighed. "I guess there are other fish in the sea, huh?"

Mother looked surprised. "Well, this is going better than I expected. Yes, you've got your whole lifetime to find someone. I've got a whole list of possible suitors hoping for your hand. How about… ah… Gascard DuPuis, for one? He's a little reclusive, a little old, but not too much so, and he looked absolutely dashing at that party you didn't attend—"

"I'm not marrying." She said, optimism vanishing in an instant. "And there is no way in hell that I am going to be called Eavelynne Dupuis. That surname is horrifying."

"You and Bethany were always so rational. Carver took more after your father and his temper. Don't start being absurd—"

"Oh, that's just rich coming from you. Is love absurd? You, who left _everything_ for Father, are calling _me_ absurd, when all I did was become a victim of it? You're such a hypocrite! I—I'm…" She could hardly believe what she was saying. Mother was right: she was so… emotional. Where was the cool, unperturbed, arrogant façade that she so recently well employed? "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"I should apologize as well. It's my place as a mother to guide her children, and I suppose you've been working so hard on your own it's been taking me awhile to come to terms with it. But my baby girl's grown up so much, haven't you…?"

Something in her tone brought back her attention; she had been drifting unconsciously towards memories of happier times, she and her younger twins playing 'Fight the Templar' in fields of gold. "Sorry, what?"

"Darling, you needn't delude yourself. I know about the child." She blanched.

"What child?"

"Must I spell it out in simple terms, Daughter? I've had three of them and I recognize—"

"Gah! I'm a coward, I admit it. I'll bake you a cake if we skip this part."

"Eavy…"

"Alright, alright. I'm keeping the child, but… Fenris doesn't need to know. Atleast, not right away."

"Are you sure that's wise?"

"I'm sure." Her mother tsked.

"Alright, then, I'll go make you something to eat, and then we can go shopping. Our estate view is amazing; I saw a new shipment of silks come in, and they're Orlesian by the looks of it!"

Eavelynne sighed.

**Author's Note**

_A very short update that I originally had sitting here collecting dust. It had the potential of a new chapter in which Leandra *spoiler* dies. The Fenris-being-a-daddy part I mused over, and I probably would have never posted this anyways. It's been done before—and so has everything else in my fanfic. Anyways, I have three projects at the moment, and what can I say? I'm a terrible person; this will probably be getting the least attention out of all. I'm not sure if I'll continue this. _

_So, think of this as an epilogue. :(_


End file.
